On Fish And Visitors
by Graysonation
Summary: Change truly can be a wonderful thing. But so can the familiar. Spencer and Peter appreciate the paradox when they get together on the night of graduation, taking solace in one another's company for the first time in a while, and the last time for a bit longer. (Part of my "Leap of Faith" universe, a prequel to "Time.")
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: **Gawd, it's nice to get back to my favorite boys! After basically drowning myself in X-Men Fanfiction for the past month, it was so weird to find myself perusing some Reid, and then some Peter . . . but in a nice way. And I realized that I wanted to write a little something-something for the two.

I dunno why, but graduation has been on my mind a lot lately . . . The baby brother nears the end of his stint in high school, and one of my best friends is within arm's reach of her degree . . . Meh. Things and stuff, I guess. Anyhoo, that's why this fic; I didn't feel like writing them as adults again yet, and I feel like the two deserve some nice moments after all the hell I put them through in "Time." *Smiles* Though this one won't be NEARLY as long; I'm thinking two or three chapters, max. I just finally re-saw the episode of _Heroes_ that talked about the night Peter graduated college, and I real wanted to give him _some_ happiness on that night, considering everything that happens later that same evening . . . *Shivers*

Okay, okay, enough babbling. Here we go!

**Warnings: **There will eventually be a reference to _Criminal Minds_ episode "L.D.S.K.," but it'll be brief, and near the end of the fic. Otherwise, this whole shebang takes place before either of the shows' real relevance, and is a total AU from the twisted depths of my mind. *Grins evilly*

**Disclaimers: **Potentially, I could write a fanfic where I own Peter and Spencer . . . Hmmm. Oh, but in real life? Nada, zip, zilch . . . NOPE.

I solemnly refuse to ask for reviews. That's your job. Psssht.

Do enjoy.

* * *

_"Some of us laugh. Some of us cry._

_Some of us smoke. Some of us lie. _

_But it's all just a way we cope with out lives."_

– _Starsailor, "Some Of Us"_

* * *

Flashbulbs were popping and going off, blinding in their bright blinking and completely hindering the senses when mixed with the thunderous sound of over 4,000 people clapping, screaming, whooping, cheering, crying, and celebrating as the relatively small class of 2006 filed into the auditorium.

Maybe it was that Peter had been around crowds so much lately (ever since Nathan had formally announced his plan to campaign for Congress in the next election, the entire Petrelli family had been dogged by a relentless flood of reporters and spectators), or maybe it was that he was too excited on this long-awaited and hard-earned most prosperous of afternoons. Or maybe it was even that beer that he and a few of his closest New York friends had had in a pre-party toast to their upcoming freedom (or maybe it could have been that second drink, or the third . . . ) – but, for whatever reason, the young man walking briskly in his new cap and gown was _hardly_ a bundle of nerves as he approached the bleachers where the graduates had been assigned to sit. In fact, taking his seat, the last-born of the Petrelli boys was positively quivering with excitement, unable to keep a cheek-splitting grin off of his face as he scanned the immense crowd.

_There they were._

His mother looked as put-together as always, hair sleek and neatly parted down the middle, outfit color-coordinated and wrinkle-free, and posture pin-straight and perfect as she stood poised and dignified next to his exhausted-looking father. Peter was grateful that his dad had managed to come at all, given the recent heart-attack that his mother told him the man had suffered. But Angela Petrelli had reported that they were moving along just fine, steadily getting back on their feet, and assuring him not to worry so much about it. So, Peter didn't – but he still smiled as he looked past his proud parents to the other two seats held reserved for the evening.

One of them remained empty and still, save the small red piece of cardstock pinned to the seat to show that it had been saved for a guest. And even though it was being cut awful close, Peter wasn't worried about Nate's no-show.

His brother had promised that he would be at the ceremony – he just had to finish a meeting with his congressional advisory committee, and then he'd be sitting in his folding chair in time to watch Peter collect his diploma.

So Peter didn't concern himself with it. He wouldn't.

_Nate had promised. _

All the same, he couldn't help but feel a surge of happiness when his eyes moved to the next seat in the row – an aisle-seat, and the last one he'd had set aside for the evening. And the only other one that was occupied with someone that he had personally extended an invitation to.

Spencer Reid was clearly uncomfortable being surrounded by so many people – his arms were folded protectively across his chest, and he looked to be trying to shrink into the heavy blazer he was wearing. But he was there, nonetheless, having had to use a sick day at work and spend almost two hours on the train to get to the ceremony. But that was the kind of person that Reid was, and Peter appreciated that as he reflected on how lucky he was to have this friend – this _brother_ – by his side on this day; so far, it was one of the most important ones in his life.

Seeming to sense the eyes on him, Reid looked up from his lap, caught Peter's eyes, and grinned cheekily.

Peter laughed at the unusual expression on his face, and bent his hand, twisting the thumb and pinkie outwards, raising the "telephone" symbol up to where his oldest friend could see it.

Up in the stands, Spencer caught their long-established sign for "we need to talk," and nodded eagerly to show he understood, still smiling.

Just then, an older man with a gray ponytail, small square spectacles, and a tweed jacket so ugly that not even Reid would have worn it stepped up to the lectern and, tapping the microphone, cleared his throat, patiently waiting for the audience to settle down before his gravely voice began to echo across the speaker system.

"Ladies, gentlemen, graduates, and esteemed guests, . . . we are all in attendance on this night to recognize and congratulate another fine group of students . . . "

Peter gradually tuned Professor Dixon out, choosing instead to scan the crowd of his classmates surrounding him, studying their faces and tones.

Some, like his roommate Thomas, looked excited (and possibly a little bit stoned . . .). Others, like his ex-girlfriend Valerie, were trembling with nerves, seemingly overwhelmed by the official symbolic act of this graduation releasing them into the big, scary world as declared adults.

But most of them wore masks, their faces blank canvases of expressionlessness as they sat stiff and upright and formal, listening to their chosen class speaker voice his praise over their accomplishments of the last few years. They didn't seem eager, or scared, or anything at all – they looked as if, to them, this was just another evening on which they were wearing something hot and uncomfortable and surrounded by people that they barely knew and liked even less.

Peter wondered what his own face looked like . . .

He heard all of the people around him clapping, and he snapped out of his self-gazing and reverie long enough to join in hastily, realizing that his class's valedictorian, Christine Long, was being called up to make her speech.

Peter barely watched as the beautiful blonde made her way towards the podium, and, after a brief pause, began to speak. He let the words wash over him as his eyes and mind drifted once more to musing over this day . . .

Nathan had been the valedictorian of his class, of course. _Of course._ Nathan was always the best at everything, and college had been no different. Mrs. Petrelli had pushed Peter to be at the top of his class, too – to make her proud . . . but, even though he tried (and he really _had_ tried), Peter had never been as fond of school as his older brother – or his _other brother from another mother_, come to think of it, . . . It was only because of late-night study sessions and essay-writing help from Spencer and a lot of cheer-leading from both Reid and occasionally Nathan that he'd been able to get his degree in Hospice and Nursing in just five years – it was something that Peter never thought he'd be able to do, let alone in less than a decade.

But here he was, sitting and graduating and about to begin his work life of helping people who needed it – just like he had always wanted.

It, like Peter, was hardly perfect.

But it was enough – it was _his._

Thinking on the last few years – on the parties he hadn't been invited to and crashed anyway, on the many beautiful girls and even more many stolen kisses, on the late-night deep talks, early-morning earnest ones, and evening scholarly ones – Peter wondered if he'd miss this, _all of this_, when it was gone. When he woke up tomorrow morning, how would he feel?

_It'll be different,_ Peter knew. _Obviously._ _But great. Hopefully. _

Peter would settle for "good." But he wanted _great_. To be a _great_ person living a _great _life doing _great_ things. Like Spencer was, working with the FBI to save lives and put away the bad guys. Or Nathan, lobbying and trying to incite change for the good American people.

_That_ was what Peter wanted, what he longed for.

The young man's reflections tumbled out of his head as his still-scanning eyes landed once more on his family.

God, his father was _crying. _

_Arthur Petrelli, crying? _Peter thought in wonder. His father, the man who couldn't be bothered to call off work early enough to show up on time for his honeymoon. His father, who hadn't made it to numerous parties and ceremonies over the years, always claiming that he was too tired or too busy. His father, Arthur Petrelli, who didn't even have a picture of his family on his desk at the office . . . but _this_ was making the old man sentimental?

Peter bit back the urge to run up and wrap his arms around his dad, instead contenting himself with a minimal smile and an acknowledging nod to his mother – who, he was shocked to find, was also sniffling a bit, trying to keep her makeup from running.

While touched by the sight of his parents so apparently moved on this grand day, Peter didn't feel comfortable invading in one the obviously private moment, and turned. Once again, the young man found himself gazing at the seat that sat next to his best friend.

The _empty _seat that sat next to his best friend.

Peter held back his sigh of disappointment, but, somehow, his feelings must have shown on his face – or maybe it was just all of that fancy-new profiling training that gave it away – because Spencer winced slightly, and looked at the unoccupied chair next to him. The other man turned back to Peter, shook his head, and, forcing a smile, mouthed "soon," with a determined nod.

Peter struggled to cover his disappointment with a shrug, as if to say that it was really no big deal, none at all, and turned back to face the front stage, feeling his friend's worried gaze on his back for several minutes before he began to breath normally, calming down and, as Spencer often urged him to, letting logic take over.

Nathan loved him, and he'd never want to hurt him, Peter knew. _He's just busy . . . Congress . . . that's a big deal – no, a _**_huge_**_ deal. Of course it's going to keep him busy. But he'll be here. _

_He promised._

Vowing not to look up at the stands again, Peter focused more intently on Christine, listening to her words of goodbye, and soon finding himself as lost in the speech as the rest of the audience appeared to be. He was nodding along, smiling, and even wincing just the tiniest bit as their valedictorian talked about their triumphs, private jokes, secret trysts, their burning desires, their hopes, their dreams . . .

Peter's feeling roller-coastered up and down, as he remembered everything of these last few precious years . . . so many "first times," a few fewer "last times," and entirely too many "I shouldn't have's . . ."

But it was all over, now.

Now, he was a man. And a man had to seize life.

He was _ready. _

The people around him were standing up then, and Peter quickly jumped to his feet. Slowly, one by one, interrupted frequently by loud bouts of whistling and clapping from the audience, the names of his classmates were called up, and Peter watched absentmindedly as the people he had come to know over the last half-decade treaded up those small wooden steps and collected their diplomas. With each name spoken, with each step closer to his future – his _destiny_ – Peter made another promise to himself.

"Adam Noah Levine."

_I promise to live right next to the park – on my own, by myself, independent, and _**_free_**_._

"Christine Marie-Katherine Long."

_I promise to help Nate as much as I am able._

"Cillian Daniel Murphy."

_I promise to take care of every one of my patients – to make them smile and laugh and sleep and dream._

"James Joseph Parsons."

_I promise to be strong, and to do the right things that I can._

"Paulette Gwendolyn Perrette."

_I promise to tell Simone –_

"Peter Maximilian Petrelli."

His legs were Jell-O, his mind was a haze . . . but, somehow, Peter managed to stumble up to the stage without actually tripping on his long gown. Somehow, he managed to ascend the water-stained old stairs to the exact same beat as "Pomp and Circumstance." Somehow, he managed to shake the college superintendent's hands, and somehow, he managed to smile warmly when the man leaned in close and whispered, "I hope that you have the _best_ luck, Peter – you deserve more than _good._"

Then, somehow, he managed to get a grip on his diploma without dropping it, and, somehow, he managed to turn slightly and flash a winning grin before, somehow, he managed to calmly amble off of the stage and begin the much-shorter-than-before walk to his seat, briefly brushing shoulders with Rebecca Rone as she high-heeled it towards her own fate onstage.

And, somehow, Peter kept smiling for the rest of the ceremony – through the rest of the long list of names, through the playing of their Senior Song ("Move Along," by the All-American Rejects), and, at last, at _long last_, the tossing of the caps, which was only slightly overshadowed by the overjoyed screaming of his 600 or so fellow students as they let loose with their hats and tried to drown out one another, their parents, and even their small and persistent fears by bellowing about how they were _free._

Somehow, Peter's cheeky grin never slipped, even though, when he looked up at where his family had been sitting, it was to have his gaze met by only three pairs of eyes, and one glaringly empty seat – a small piece of red cardstock still clinging pitifully to the cushion.

As Peter watched, the paper fell away, fluttering slowly towards the ground, where it settled for just a second before being crushed by an onslaught of whooping, cheering members of the class of 2006.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note: **Back again! I know it's been a bit long for me, but I've been re-writing this chapter about a thousand times; somehow, no matter what I do, it keeps coming out slash-y to me, and even though I love my boys gay, this just isn't that kind of story. Truth be told, I'm still far from satisfied — but this is the best I've come up with without having them wear shirts that say "I LIKE WOMEN" in this particular story. Tiddle-tee-hee.

In the meantime? Shanks for the reviews and favs and follows! No matter what I spend my time on in here, I think it's safe to say that this particular universe is my favorite. And a special thanks to **Anneber03**, who pointed out that I never actually told the story about this "Simone" Peter is talking about. Here's the skinny.

_Simone is an (extremely beautiful) art-auctioneer that's known Peter since she babysat him briefly as a child. As adults, they remain friends, if not overly close ones. After Peter obtains his degree, Simeone hires him to be an aide to her dying father; working for them, Peter begins to fall in love with Simone, despite that she's involved in a serious relationship with renown painter Isaac Mendez. At one point, Isaac OD's on heroin, and Simone calls Peter to help. He does, and Simone breaks up with Isaac over the drugs, eventually turning to Peter for comfort. They begin to see one another. Later on, after Isaac gets clean, he comes back to win Simone over — and as the two share a kiss, Peter sees, and it rather destroys his faith in humanity, for a little bit. Full of questions and anger, Peter tries to confront Isaac later at his apartment and ask him why, but things escalate to shutting rather fast, and as Peter rages, Isaac fears for his life and pulls a gun on him. Peter turns invisible just as Isaac fires a shot, and the bullet misses, going straight through the apartment and hitting Simone, who had just walked in. She dies in Peter's arms. _

Okay, that made it sound kind of awful, but I'm adapting the synopsis from the Heroes Wiki Page; it's so, SO much more complicated that all of that would have you believe, but the only way to really 'get' it is to watch the show. So much more tragic that way. And I'm sorry for the spoilers, but it really helps to know this before reading this chapter, since Peter'll mention bits about there past (as Simone is obviously still alive in this).

Okay, ridiculously long AN is DONE.

**Warnings: **There will eventually be a reference to _Criminal Minds_ episode "L.D.S.K.," but it'll be brief, and near the end of the fic. Otherwise, this whole shebang takes place before either of the shows' real relevance, and is a total AU from the twisted depths of my mind. *Grins evilly*

**Disclaimers: **Potentially, I could write a fanfic where I own Peter and Spencer . . . Hmmm. Oh, but in real life? Nada, zip, zilch . . . NOPE.

I solemnly refuse to ask for reviews. That's your job. Psssht.

Do enjoy.

* * *

_"__I've been hang in' onto something . . ._

_You keep laughing,_

_awe-inspiring . . ."_

– _Starsailor, "Some Of Us"_

* * *

"This is the evening of what is generally regarded to be one of the most significant events in a person's life – an evening on which, I might add, that _I _have offered to pay for – and you choose to have your celebration dinner _here?" _Reid huffed out in a laugh as he held the door open for Peter, and the two men entered their favorite New York diner – a semi run-down Italian place called _Piadina. _The décor was cheap and cheesy, and the spaghetti even more so; but the bread was delicious, the coffee had free and unlimited refills, it was within block's of Peter's apartment, and, more than anything else, it was always nearly-empty and totally quiet.

Peter just rolled his eyes at his old friend. "Like you weren't thinking of the same exact thing, Spencer." He turned to hang his coat on the old brass racks behind the umbrella stand, and then flashed a brilliant smile as their longtime favorite hostess, Cally, greeted them with a playful "Hello, boys," and guided them to their preferred table in the back of the restaurant, by the Artisan-style windows.

"You're having the usual to drink, my lovelies?" Cally asked as she leaned down to hand them their menus, her curly red hair brushing softly against Spencer's arm. The young man also caught a whiff if her perfume – _gardenias – _and turned his face away, nodding as a blush flooded his cheeks. Peter, observing this, grinned coyly and met Cally's eye.

"Actually, we're celebrating tonight, sweetheart. Would you bring along a bottle of wine, as well – one of your finest?" Peter winked, and their waitress giggled as she straightened up.

Ruefully shaking her head, Cally said, "Hon, it's all Arbor Mist, all the time. Ain't nothing _fine _about it."

"Ah, well!" Peter feigned disappointment, his eyes merry. "I guess you'll just have to bring your high-quality _self_ along, instead. Three glasses, then? And whatever flavor is the darkest color."

Cally nodded, the smile on her face warm and full and bright, and turned to fetch their beverages. She cocked her head back around, suddenly.  
"By the way, boys; what are we celebrating?"

Peter reached out to grip Spencer's hand, and, holding a straight face, replied, "Our engagement."

Reid, his eyes wide with shock, ripped his arm out of Peter's grasp and glared at his friend while Cally sashayed away laughing and Peter himself fought not to collapse in hysterics.

"You just earned your Bachelor's Degree in medical science, and you've officially been designated as an ANP who will care for our elderly while collecting health insurance and benefits – to say nothing of the reputation – and yet, somehow, you still persist on conducting childish antics."

Peter took a moment to reign his grin under control before answering. "Just trying to lighten the mood, Spencer."

Reid's look was still hard. "It doesn't lighten my mood to have my sexual orientation scrutinized by my best friend and a waitress I like."

"You know, you once told me that people are only truly bothered by the truth, Spencer . . . and, well . . . methinks the gentleman doth protest too much." Peter let his voice drift off meaningfully, waggling his eyebrows as he kept teasing his oldest buddy.

"_I'm – " _catching himself, Reid lowered his voice and leaned in closer to Peter, whispering furiously, "_I'm not gay!"_

"I never said you were." Peter's smile faltered after a minute, when Spencer still looked pained. "Look, seriously, I'm sorry. I was just playing, Spence – you know that."

Reid hesitated for a second, then sighed and smiled in forgiveness. They both knew why Peter was on-edge – and neither wanted to upset the evening by bringing up Nathan's little disappearing act.

A comfortable silence settled over the table as the two men turned to their menus – a brief pause that Peter felt the need to immediately break.

" . . . Of course . . . any _straight_ man who had to work with someone who _acts_ like that Elle Greenaway and someone who _looks_ like Derek Morgan, well . . ."

Reid, having decided what he wanted, met Peter's gaze with a suspicious eye as he folded up his menu.

" . . . well, I would understand if that drove you to . . . _drive on the other side of the road,_ if you catch my drift, Spencer."

Peter made mocking googly-eyes at Reid, and this time, the young genius burst out into laughter too.

Both men were still chuckling as their waitress made her way back over, balancing a tray carrying one very black pot of coffee, a bottle of purple-tinted wine, and three slim champagne flutes.

"Everything good, darlings?" She asked, beginning to pour out the wine.

Spencer held up a hand to stop her, saying, "None for me, please." At Cally's curious glance, he continued, "I – I have to work in the morning, and I don't want to be late or otherwise impaired when I g-get there." He bumbled to the end of the sentence, and dropped his gaze again.

"Oh, come off it!" Peter commanded, gesturing for Cally to continue doling out the alcohol as he collected the menu his friend was still clutching. "One glass won't hurt you anything tragic, Spence." He grinned. "Besides – you're about two-thirds pure coffee, anyway – and there's a fresh pot right there. A sip or two, and then you'll be sobered up like _that." _He snapped his fingers for emphasis, and, when Reid still looked conflicted, pressed on.

"I don't want to be the only one celebrating tonight, Spencer – it's a special occasion."

Reid's eyes searched Peter's, and, seeing that he was sincere, gave a small nod and accepted the glass Cally held out to him.

"No one actually gave me an answer — like, a _real _one," Cally mused, as the three of them raised their flutes. "What _are_ we celebrating?"

Spencer and Peter met eyes before the former of the two finally answered simply, "Graduation."

Peter added, smiling, "Adulthood. Promise. The _future._"

Cally nodded, understanding. "I'll drink to that," she said, clinking her glass with both of theirs. For a second, then, silence held over the three young people as they each took a small sip of the grocery-store-quality wine.

Reid, wincing slightly from the unfamiliar taste, set his glass down first, and waited expectantly as the other two finished their sips.

Cally smiled as she shifted her own cup to her left hand, using her right one to pick up the two forgotten menus on the table.

"So . . ." she drawled out, glancing at both of the youth before her. " . . . I'm thinking that _you," _her eyes glanced to Peter, "want the vegetarian lasagna with eggplant parm . . ." She turned from the nodding darker-haired young man to Spencer, and continued, " . . . and _you_ . . . Hmm. I'm gonna get you the tetrazzini." Nodding decisively, she made to leave.

"Actually, I was – " the young man didn't even get to finish his sentence, as their waitress shushed him, sauntering away and calling smoothly over her shoulder, "No tiffs about the price, cutie-pie. It's on me."

Reid blushed at this, and, not knowing what to do with himself, upturned the small cup on his side of the table, and filled it first with coffee, and then, Peter watching in amusement, began ripping open packet after packet of sweetener, tossing the empty ones in a pile at the edge of the table as the white powder grew into a substantial pile on top of his drink.

Peter knew that Reid was just fiddling to avoid his embarrassment, so he let it go – for the moment. Instead, he focused on the growing pile of discarded sugar packets near Spencer's elbow.

"Still addicted, I see."

Spencer didn't bother to look up as he added yet another serving of Equal to his sludgy-looking drink. "I _like _coffee."

Peter shook his head and took another sip of wine. _Some things never change, _he though to himself.

_Thank god for that._

"Didn't you say you had work in the morning?" the darker-haired man asked teasingly.

Reid, understanding what his friend was getting at, quickly defended, "Coffee doesn't keep me up, Pete."

Eyeing the shadows beneath his (as good as) brother's eyes, Peter bit back a sigh; it was probably far worse things that kept his friend from sleeping.

But he didn't want to get into an argument. Not tonight.

So he lightened his tone, saying instead, "Right. Must be thoughts of that little-miss-Lila-Archer that invade Dr. Spencer's dreams, then . . ."

Reid's eyes shot up, and his deer-in-the-headlights expression was priceless.

"How – ?"

"I do _occasionally _have the curious need to eat, Spence. And I do _occasionally _go out to the grocery store – where I will _occasionally _have to wait in line. And, _occasionally, _I might happen to glance at one of those god-awful tabloids and, just _occasionally_, I might happen to see my best friend getting tight and cozy with some cute little bikini model."

"She's an actress – " Reid murmured before he could stop himself. At Peter's knowing grin, he tried to cover, coughing and hurriedly speaking on, "She was involved in a case recently, and my team assigned a protective detail for her."

"_You?"_ Peter asked, unable to help his incredulous tone.

"Yes, _me."_ Reid sounded indignant, and he was meeting Peter's always-intense gaze with a powerful look of his own.

"I am a perfectly capable field agent – I made sure Lila went nowhere by herself, and helped talk down the unsub when we confronted her."

"Bet Miss Archer musta loved you for _that." _Peter grinned. When Spencer averted his eyes and blushed again, Peter pushed even further.

"She give you a kiss, Spencey?"

Reid's silence was all the answer that Peter needed.

"Man, . . . it only takes you 24 years to get a juicy one, and then your first is with _Lila Archer_ . . ." he mused, thinking that his friend would _never _stop surprising him.

Spencer was saved from having to answer by their waitress returning, setting down their loaded plates with a soft, "Enjoy, boys" before ruffling both of their heads and strolling away again.

Reid, unaware of it, watched her leave with a curious expression on his face. Digging into his pasta with gusto, Peter finally tried to be a little serious.

"Got anyone special in your life, Spence?"

Both men appeared intensely focused on their food as Reid answered.

"No. I mean, . . . I don't have a significant other, not like that."

Peter raised an eyebrow, and waited – he knew that Spencer was one to go about at his own pace, and would tell more as soon as he was comfortable.

It didn't take long.

"I just . . . my job takes up a tremendous amount of time. We're always consulting, and we do more field work than expected . . . And then, there's always reporting, and case files, and paperwork . . . and I'm trying to write my mom every day . . ."

Peter felt a rush of sympathy for his friend – he knew how hard it had been on Reid taking care of his mother. And right after he turned 18, when he'd gotten accepted into the FBI Academy, his friend had bought his mom a room in the best sanitarium in Las Vegas. Peter never judged him for what he'd done – he was just a kid, he's given up so much for Diana's well-being . . . and he still did a lot more for her than most sons did for their perfectly healthy parents.

Peter was about to reach over a hand and tell Reid some of this, when his friend suddenly spoke again.

"But I'm fine. I mean, I've been getting to know my team really well – I've even hung out with JJ and Morgan a few times outside of work . . . And I've got you – and I'm always busy, anyway." Reid smiled a smile that didn't quite hide the sadness etched in his features, and met his friend's eyes once more.

"What about you?"

Peter, deciding to let Spencer's masking-up go, couldn't help the dreamy expression when he thought of his own matter of the heart.

"It's still Simone, Spencer."

Reid bit back a joking groan as his friend brought up, yet again, the one girl he claimed that he had fallen in love with in his short life. Ignoring him, Peter continued on.

"She's so beautiful, Spence – have I shown you her picture, yet?" When Reid shook his head, Peter pulled out his wallet and tossed over a small, frayed Polaroid that showed an extremely pretty African American woman with large blue eyes, curly brown hair, and Chicklet-white teeth gleaming brightly in her open, laughing smile. As Spencer noted this, he nodded to affirm that, yes, Simone was beautiful, and handed the picture back to his friend.

Peter stared briefly into the face on the film, still talking as he tucked it away safely into his wallet.

"She's been nothing but supportive since I started college – and she's even taking me out to dinner tomorrow to celebrate graduation."

Reid smiled, and tried to deflect the conversation. "But you chose to spend _tonight_ with me, Pete. I'm flattered."

Peter frowned at Spencer's teasing tone. "I wasn't going to ditch you, Spence. But I want to spend as much time as possible with Simone while I can. Isaac's out of town on some business, and I want to be there for her."

Reid said nothing, taking another sip of his coffee and struggling not to profile his oldest and dearest friend. Isaac was Simone's longtime boyfriend – and, she claimed, the love of her life. _Peter was just very taken with his old babysitter, and, clearly, was getting his hopes up, and – _

Reid shook his head to rid himself of the thoughts. _No profiling. _

Oblivious, Peter was still talking.

"And she offered me the position to take care of her dad, too – his old hospice aide quit a couple of weeks ago, and she says she wants someone she knows she can trust with her father. And, Spence – I was the _first_ one she asked."

Reid nodded, not wanting to say something he might later regret. But Peter, being someone who'd known him for almost twenty years, picked up on the other man's hesitation, anyway.

"What?" He asked, cocking an eye at Reid.

Spencer shook his head. "It's not important. I just . . . I hope that everything works out the best for you, Pete."

Peter's face twisted. "You don't think I can get Simone?"

"I didn't say that at all." Reid protested. "I was merely trying to assuage any doubts you might have about the probability of, ah, . . . being _with _Simone."

"And?"

"_And, . . . _I think that Simone has been a huge part of your life for a long time, Peter. _And,_ I think that she loves you just as much as you love her . . ."

"But?"

"But," Reid continued, wishing there was an easier way to say it. ". . . she's been seeing the same man for six years, Peter. _Six years._ I mean, she was with him through rehab and relapse, from his being a broke painter to becoming the famous comic-book artist . . . I think that she loves _you_, but I think that she _loves_ him. Isaac."

Peter held back the ache that shot through his heart when Spencer had said the words that he _so _didn't want to hear.

Reid watched anxiously as Peter prepared to respond, taking in a quick breath.

"I – I know that she and . . . _he . . ._ have a history, Spence. I'm not stupid."

"No," Reid confirmed, nodding. "You're just very kind, and very hopeful, and very . . . in love."

"Right." Peter pursed his lips as he thought on how to voice his next thought.

"That's just it, though. I _love _her – more than I can say. And maybe she doesn't love me back, or as much, or in the same way. But _I do, _Spencer. And I'm going to be part of her life because of that – as a friend only, or a little brother, or some ex-babysitting-charge, if that's what it takes." He looked up at Reid, and found the other man's eyes full of sympathy. "I need her in my life. No matter what."

Reid's head jerked in agreement, and he tried to understand Peter's reasoning. But, deep down, he was sure that his oldest friend was going to get his heart broken by his blindness. And Spencer didn't want that to happen.

But he would be there if it did.

Peter watched the flickering emotions cascade over his friend's face and said quietly, "Don't profile me, Spencer."

Reid gulped at having been caught, and looked up to meet his friend's always-deep gaze. "Sorry. Kind of becomes habit on the job." He smiled.

The tension was broken as Peter returned the look. "And . . . ?"

"And you're not a histrionic sexual sadist . . ."

Peter laughed. "I'm sure that'll entice women to me, if nothing else."

Reid watched his friend, knowing that the only "women" he was thinking of was one _woman._

_Oh, Peter._

Catching the slight expression, Peter shook the thought aside and tried to return the evening to the light banter it had had before.  
"You know, Spence, if you get to judge me based on your job, then I think it's only fair that I get to diagnose you based on _mine."_

"Oh, yeah?" Reid teased, his voice challenging.

"Yup." Peter grinned, for real this time. "Let's see . . . well, you're far too pale – now, that _could _be the result of anemia or a form of Lyme's Disease . . . or it could mean that you're spending wa-ay to much time buried in those stupid Russian books, and not enough time hanging out with other, living members of the human race . . ."

Reid was now smiling too. "They're not stupid!" he defended of his beloved Dostoyevsky.

"Getting defensive . . . I'd say that you're also in denial about possible symptoms . . . That could be from Broken-Heart Syndrome . . . Or maybe you're a hypochondriac trying to score free meds . . ." Peter joked on.

"I changed my mind – you _are_ a deviant." Reid's fake frown was quickly disassembled by the grin breaking through on his face, and he continued, "And I would _never _use drugs!"

Peter winked, and said with disappointment, "Shoot. There go _my _plans for the evening – " he was cut off as a large garlic knot hit him in the face, and he turned to see Spencer grinning mischievously. He delicately picked up the roll off his lap, dusted it off, and took a huge bite.

"_Now_ who's persisting on 'conducting childish antics,' Spence?"

Reid, watching his friend, laughed along with him, and handed over the plate of butter. "For your bread, my closet psychopath?"

Accepting it, Peter nodded. "Anytime . . . _loverboy."_

More people walking into the restaurant looked over as the two men burst out into loud laughter, and their stares were only met by the friends breaking down yet again.

Both boys were self-conscious, to a degree. But Spencer was finally having fun, and so, too, was Peter. All the looks be damned – for the first time today, Peter didn't feel nervous or anxious or tired or unaware . . . he was just happy.

Content to be sitting there, enjoying a nice dinner, with his best friend.

* * *

**Author's Endnote: **B'awww, so sweet, those two. Shipping moment going on here . . . Echem. I'll just quietly excuse myself to go work on the last chapter for this . . .


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note: **Ack! So, SO sorry for the inexcusably long wait! I've been at the SkillsUSA State Competition for, like, a week, and used the two days after to recover from it all. This was done, and so was poor widdle me, alas; two solid days of testing and waitressing do not an author make.

Still, I'm alive, with some medals in my hands, and am finally (and ever so relievedly!) returning to the last chapter of my Peter/Spencer universe. For now. I'm sure there's something more in the works already . . . This'll never end, will it? *Grins*

Anyhoo, thank you to all those that have read, reviewed, favorited, and/or followed. It always does me good to see that people are enjoying what I'm putting out there. You guys mean a lot to me, even if I don't stalk you guys in RL (never have any time anymore, me).

Enough babbling!

**Warnings: **There will eventually be a reference to _Criminal Minds_ episode "L.D.S.K.," but it'll be brief, and near the end of the fic. Otherwise, this whole shebang takes place before either of the shows' real relevance, and is a total AU from the twisted depths of my mind. *Grins evilly*

**Disclaimers: **Potentially, I could write a fanfic where I own Peter and Spencer . . . Hmmm. Oh, but in real life? Nada, zip, zilch . . . NOPE.

I solemnly refuse to ask for reviews. That's your job. Psssht.

Do enjoy.

* * *

_"My wandering' soul_

_found solace at last._

_I wanted to know_

_how long it would last . . ."_

– _Starsailor, "Some Of Us"_

* * *

The always-chilly New York night air had cooled down to near-Arctic levels by the time that Spencer and Peter finished their dinner. They vacated the restaurant shortly after 10 o'clock, leaving behind the plates from a tremendous dinner (Cally had been right about the tetrazzini, and Reid had asked for seconds . . . twice), an empty bottle of wine (that had been _Peter's_ second helping) and a generous gratuity – which meant that they'd also left behind a waitress grinning from ear-to-ear as she tucked the fifty into her apron pocket.

Shivering slightly as a second gust of biting air whipped his long curls into his face, Spencer pulled his long, tweed jacket tighter over his slender frame, and gritted his teeth against the chill.

Peter, however, had been living in the city for the better part of his admittedly short life, and wasn't bothered by the gusts of wet wind. Rather, he hooked his thumbs into the belt loops of his jeans, and breathed in deeply as they ambled down the street together, savoring the smell of rain, and dead leaves, and that . . . _New York_ sort of smell that always made him feel happy, and at-home.

There was a comfortable silence between the two gentlemen as they slowly made their way to the end of the block, each lost in his own thoughts and comfortably full stomachs.

Peter was the first one to speak, eyes still closed in contentment as they stopped for a red light.

"That was a really good meal."

Spencer was almost a slow in responding as his friend had been in starting the new line of conversation at all. Equally relaxed in the flood of streetlight and newspaper bits blowing around, he said, his voice soft, "It always is."

Suddenly, Peter didn't want the night to end – he always had more fun, more ease, more _help_ in talking to his best friend than he did anyone else . . . even Nathan.

He looked over at Spencer, whose face was still hidden by the flickering shadows of traffic as they crossed the street.

"Are you sure you have to work tomorrow?"

"Yeah, Peter." Spencer was still being so quiet . . .

"Ah, because . . ." Peter felt awkward even bringing it up – he knew that his longtime pal wasn't the social type. And certainly not the partying kind. _But . . ._ "Well, my roommate's having a big party at our place tonight – you know, graduation, one last fling, all that . . ." He glanced again at Spencer, whose expression was unreadable.

"I mean, you'd be more than welcome to come."

Reid smiled an ironic smile as Peter finished the sentence lamely, and shook his head.

"Pete, you know how I am at these things. I'd just be freaking everyone out when I started talking about serial killers."

"You don't have to tell them what you do, Spence." Peter shoved his buddy playfully as they came to another crosswalk, well on their way to the subway.

"Really?" Reid smirked. "And when they inquire as to how I earn a living, I should tell them, what, exactly? I'm a Marc Jacobs model?"

Peter appraised the lanky body before him.

"Nah. You're much too skinny."

"Too skinny to be a _model?"_

"Well, there's also the 'you being heinously ugly' thing . . ."

Both men chuckled, and Reid spoke again as they continued along languidly.

"I think I'd be better off at home, Peter. And I _do _have a plane to catch in the morning."

Peter nodded, understanding.

"I know, I guess . . . I just feel like I never get to see you enough, Spencer . . . You've got your job, and pretty soon I'm gonna be working sixty hours a week, too –"

"I work eighty."

"I was _trying _to be sentimental, you drip." Peter snorted, and shook his head, a smile playing out on his lips.

There was silence for a moment, and then:

"We're going to see each other again, Peter."

He looked up at the taller man next to him. "Soon?"

Reid nodded, swallowing a little bit. "Soon."

Thinking that their conversation was over, Peter allowed his thoughts to drift, and was surprised when Spencer continued,

"I really do miss you, Pete. And I never have so much fun hanging out anyone as I do with you . . . I guess sometimes things just . . . slip. I forget what it's like to be working, and in college."

Peter shook his head. "That's because you graduated when you were, like, fifteen, man."

"Seventeen."

"Aww, shut up."

Spencer's lips tugged up in a faint grin, and when his eyes finally rose off of his feet to meet the piercing gaze of his best friend, he spoke hesitantly, a nervous light in his face.

"Then we'll do this again. All of it."

"_All_ of it?" Peter's expression was skeptical as he mocked. "I mean, I'm sure it'd be a like a snap of the fingers for you, Spencer, but I don't think I have another graduation in me."

"Smart-ass." Reid smiled, moving slightly closer to Peter as a young couple brushed past them on the sidewalk. Adjusting his long-unraveling scarf so that it was hanging over his back, Spencer took a few moments before he spoke again, contemplating the entire evening as Peter was.

"Do you know what struck me the most about your valedictorian?"

"Hmm?" Peter didn't move his eyes from ahead, just enjoying the quiet company of his best friend on a lovely evening in the Big Apple . . . and thoughts of the loud, drunken, all-nighter party that he was going to have to make an appearance at, later, of course.

Oblivious his friend's only-half-there response, Reid continued, "It was the way that she kept saying 'it's time' throughout the speech."

Peter finally looked up at Spencer, noticing the disquiet in his oldest buddy's voice as he spoke on.

"I mean, she said, 'It's time to begin. It's time for a change. It's time for a revolution, and an absolution, and for us to be so strange.' "

"Yeah," Peter finally replied, as Spencer drifted off. "Christine writes poetry. I kinda liked it – really nice, and memorable. Not a bad way to send-off."

"I suppose so." Reid said, his tone acquiescent. "I guess I just thought that the whole thing, while, ah . . . easy to remember, . . . it, was, I don't know . . . very _final." _At Peter's curious look, Spencer continued.

"I mean, the way she was saying it, it made it seem like this was the biggest thing that would ever happen to any of you. Like, this was it, this is the end, have a good night and we'll see you after the hangovers subside."

"I didn't get that meaning at all." Peter stared hard at his friend as they waited to cross the intersection nearest the Metro.

"I thought she was trying to convey that everything is about to happen for us, Spence. Like, this is only the beginning, and there's so many more things to look forward to in the future."

"Is there?"

Peter jolted slightly at his friend's question. _What?_

Hurriedly, Spencer rushed out the last of his thought. "I just – nothing much happens for awhile, Pete. Sometimes, it feels like you've done all the best stuff already. You picked out your major, got your degree, . . . and now you're on you're career path and lifestyle choice for approximately the next 68.35 years. Sometimes, . . ." Spencer shifted slightly against his friend, thinking before he completed his sentence. " . . . Sometimes, I wonder what else there is that's big and exciting to look forward to after this."

"Spence," Peter started his heart aching with sympathy at his friend's distress, "you can't even begin to think like that." Reid looked at him, the very faintest glimmer of tears in his eyes and Peter went on.

"We're so young, Spencer. There's decades of life ahead – for me and for you. Years full of girls, and vacation time, books and movies, exploring . . . and it's not like we'll just be sitting Neandrothals for all that time. We're both doing something we love, right?"

Spencer's lips trembled as he replied. "Sometimes, I _don't_ love my job, Pete."

Peter stared, waiting. It was several minutes before Spencer continued, his voice a tremor and his hands shaking slightly in his pockets.

"I killed someone."

"Oh, Spencer." Knowing about his friend's slight aversion to touch, Peter moved cautiously as he slid his hand around Spencer's back, and, very slowly, brought him in for a hug.

"I didn't even feel bad about it." Spencer's voice cracked as his head buried in Peter's shoulder. "He was holding me and another agent hostage . . . my Unit Chief, he . . . he lied to him, and managed to sneak me a gun . . . I shot him in the head, and – and, _God, _he just stared up at me afterwards . . . I still see those eyes, sometimes, Peter." Spencer was trembling, his voice choking off in a sob as, unconsciously, he hugged his best friend tighter.

Peter was almost as talented as reading people as Spencer. And he was infinitely good at handling these kinds of situations. Which is why he knew that the right thing to do was to stand there, just warm and solid and still and silent and _there, _and just hold on while Spencer got everything off his chest.

After a little while, when the other man's erratic breathing had returned to normal, Peter, sensing that his best friend had calmed down enough to speak coherently, asked, "Do you want to talk about it?"

"No," Spencer gulped as he slowly pulled away from his friend's embrace, wiping his eyes and he straightened up. "I mean," he continued, seeing the hurt flash in Peter's eyes, "not right now, I don't. I've seen a therapist a few times about it, and that's been helpful . . . she suggested that I tell someone what happened, thinks that I need a 'confession' to get it off of my chest, said it'll help . . ."

"And?"

"I don't know. I just don't want to make tonight sad, Peter. It's the evening you've been working towards for years. Not a night for me to –"

"Spencer," Peter interrupted the man before he could try to dismiss his feelings, "when you need to talk about something, _you talk_. I don't care what, or when – all I care about is _you, _and whether _you're_ okay. If the reason you'd hold back something is because of what date it is, then fuck it. _Nothing's_ more important than family."

Reid smiled, the last traces of sadness on his features ebbing away. "I know that, Pete. _Trust me," _he added when it looked like the darker-haired man was about to start up again. "_I do. _But it's late, and you have a party to get to, and I'm tired, and I have work . . ."

Peter cocked his head, not ready to give up just yet. "We're going to talk about this, Spence. I can tell that you need to."

"Now who's profiling?" Reid murmured. Glancing up and catching the serious expression on his friend's face, he nodded, caving. "Okay. How about the week after next? We can get lunch somewhere new. I mean, if I don't have a case, that is." He smiled sheepishly. "They kinda come up without proper scheduling."

Peter nodded. "And as long as none of my patients crashes – that kinda comes up without proper scheduling, too." He smiled at his best friend, relieved that the light had returned to Reid's eyes when he smiled back at him. "Man," he huffed out, his breath making a small puff of smoke in the freezing air. "I feel like a real-grown up, arranging a meal with my buddy around our work schedules and everything."

"You _sound_ like a grownup." Reid acknowledged as they came onto the steps that lead into the subway, the warm air and distinct sound of many people in a hurry washing over them as they stood for a second, savoring the smell and lights of the underground world. "And you're only almost 25." Grinning cheekily, he led the way downstairs. "About time."

"Well, like Miss 4.0 said, . . . _'it's time,' _now. It's come." Peter hurried to catch up with his best friend. He might be more athletic, but his legs had never been as long as Spencer's.

"Yes," Reid mused quietly as they dodged their way around the late-night flood of Manhattan-ers. "The time has come . . ." he smiled, remembering. " . . . to talk of many things . . ."

"Of shoes," Peter quipped, a grin breaking across his face as he latched onto the taller man's arm, to avoid losing him, "and ships, and sealing wax. Of cabbages, and kings." He took pleasure in the delight that rippled across Spencer's face in his knowing the old poem.

" . . . Of why the sea is boiling hot," Reid continued, looking to his friend to see if he remembered the last verse.

"_And whether pigs have wings." _They finished together, laughing as the subway Reid had been rushing to catch was announced to be a little late.

"I didn't know that you cared for Mr. Carroll's type of poetry," Reid commented as the two of them took a seat on the nearest bench, waiting for the always-late underground system of New York to orient itself back on schedule.

"I don't normally." Peter's voice was quieter than before – the exhaustion from all that had happened that day was starting to show in the way he leaned forward on his seat, drooping just slightly in the late evening air.

"It was for one of my creative writing courses. The teacher had us all read _Alice in Wonderland._" He paused, unsure of whether to continue, and, when Spencer said nothing, barreled on. "I liked the guy's writing style. After the unit was done, I went out and bought a couple of his books. He's kind of a –" Peter's thoughts were interrupted as he saw Spencer sit up abruptly, panicked, and start digging his hands around in that god-awful satchel he always carried with him.

"Uh, Spence?"

Reid held up one hand, and Peter could swear that the other man muttered "_Shit." _As he continued the frantic search through his bag, brushing his hair irritatedly out of his face as he moved. Peter, taken aback by the uncharacteristically rude gesture, sat back at watched, waiting.

A moment later, Spencer's considerable neck craned back up, and he held something behind his back. "Sorry," he apologized for his earlier behavior, seeing the expression on Peter's face, "I just realized that I never gave you your graduation gift."

"Spencer, you didn't have to –"

"Technically, yes, I didn't." Reid cut him off, waving his free hand dismissively towards Peter's nose, effectively cutting off his best friend's protest. "All I _have to do_ is breathe, consume, excrete, and someday have the urge to procreate. But I think that life would get a mite boring if that was there was to it, don't you agree?" He thrust a small, square, heavy package into Peter's arms, the wrapping paper tearing slightly as the darker-haired man fumbled when he caught it.

Grinning at his friend's persistence, Peter ripped right in.

"_Activating Evolution; The Theory of Genetic Revolution Through Genomes, _by Dr. Chandra Suresh." Peter looked up at Spencer, whose eyes were shining brightly, and couldn't stop the warm feeling that flooded his heart.

They had never _really _talked about what had happened with Nathan, that night all those years ago . . . It never seemed like something that warranted discussion; they knew it hadn't been a dream, or a story, or the result of a late night with popcorn and too much sugary soda. It just, . . . _was_. A sort of inherent happening that they both knew in their hearts was real, a secret bond they shared that went deeper than blood. It tied them together, had started their paths in life on a similar course . . . but their friendship had grown into something far more, a thing all of it's own, over the years, and they'd never felt the need – nor had the urge – to reminisce about how they became acquainted.

But that didn't mean that Peter didn't still think about it now and again. And he was truly touched by what Spencer had brought him.

"Thank you," he whispered, still holding the heavy volume in his hands.

Reid's smile trembled, happy that he had made his friend happy. "I just thought that the time had come . . . You know," he continued, when Peter still gazed at his book, a million miles away. "I figured you could read it, now."

"Right." Peter laughed, covering up the single tear that had been beginning to form, slightly embarrassed by how much this present meant to him. "_Now, _after almost five years of college, _now_ I'm _probably _ready for a book that you had memorized at age six."

Reid didn't comment, and watched as Peter opened the cover, examining the signature inside. "He lives in New York, you know." His friend glanced up at him briefly before returning his attention to the gold-embossed pages below. Reid cleared his throat, and continued, "You know. If you were curious, or needed any help with the theories . . ." He trailed off awkwardly as Peter snapped the hardcover shut firmly, and locked his piercing, cutting eyes of onyx onto Spencer's much lighter hazel ones.

"If there's something I don't get, I'll ask you, genius."

Reid smiled, relieved, as Peter continued.

"Next week, at lunch."

"Alright." Spencer conceded, just as a rush of cool, smoggy exhaust-air filtered it's way through the tunnel, announcing the arrival of the last train. The both of them stood up, Spencer reaching into his pocket for his passcard, and Peter re-covering the book in it's gold wrapping paper, not wanting to smudge or mar the pages with water or grime on the way home. He followed Spencer up to the gate, and stood there a moment as the other man re-buttoned his coat, and turned to face Peter.

"It really was a lovely dinner, Pete."

He smiled, clapping a hand onto his friend's shoulder as other passengers of the subway hurried to board on the last minute. He met Spencer's penetrating stare once more, and spoke, not blinking.

"We'll have another one soon."

Reid nodded, and made to disentangle himself from the other man.

"Spencer." Peter spoke more loudly, and Reid looked up, alert. "_Soon." _He raised an eyebrow, and Reid nodded, sealing the promise.

"As soon as possible, Peter." Reid cast a glance over his shoulder, and saw that the flimsy metal doors were starting to close. He looked back at his friend, and shot forward suddenly, catching Peter off-guard with a quick, one-armed hug. "Goodbye." He pulled out of Peter's grip, and looked in his eyes with the faintest ghost of a smile on his face before turning and fighting his way onto the train.

Peter never took his eyes off of him as the skinny man shoved past one of the windows, as he grabbed a railing hanging from the ceiling for dear life, or as the train started to inch away from the platform, and Spencer, one last time, looked up, met Peter's gaze, and waved until the tunnel cut him out of sight.

Peter stood for a few moments, breathing and thinking, until he was brought back to Earth by all of the shoving, rushing subway-people, and he made his out, down the tiled hallways, up the stairs, and out once more into the brisk night air.

Giving up any hope of finding a cab, Peter began the slow trek back to his apartment – back to the real world. The real, loud, noisy, drunken world that smelled of cigarettes and people undoubtedly having sex on his couch. Peter glanced back down at the book still clutched protectively in his arms, and smiled. He had fun as "Petrelli, man!" with all of his college buddies. And he had fun as "Pete" with Spencer.

He wrapped his leather coat just a small bit snugger around his arms as a bone-chilling gust of wind swept over him, leaving the damp scent of rotting leaves behind, and smiled, thinking about tonight with Reid, and later tonight with Tommy and Clarice and all of his buddies, . . . tomorrow, with Simone, . . . next week, with his new job . . . maybe even some time with Nathan, later, too.

_It really _**_was_**_ a good dinner, _Peter thought to himself, whistling slightly as he made his way down the street.

_It always was._

* * *

_"The heart that I stole?_

_I'm not givin' back. _

_Never._

_Givin'._

_Back."_

– _Starsailor, "Some Of Us"_


End file.
